


The Magic Word

by DoubleApple



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Book: Carry On, Sweet/Hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5608798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleApple/pseuds/DoubleApple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's two weeks after the leavers ball, and Simon is tired of Baz treating him with kid gloves. So he takes matters into his own hands (ahem).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fic! Something about these characters is so... yeah. :)

**SIMON**

“Say please.” I try to sound authoritative.

“Please,” Baz says automatically, but it’s wrong. One of his thin eyebrows is lifted, scornful.

I pull away from him. We’re facing each other, sitting on my bed with the lights off, but it’s a smoky purple dark and I can see Baz just fine.

We’ve been kissing for 20 minutes already, and we’re both down to nothing but boxers. This is new for us. It’s been two weeks since that kiss at the leavers ball, and we still haven’t done much more than that—and it’s never felt as good, because Baz is too busy feeling sorry for me.

“That’s not how you say ‘please,’” I tell him.

He sighs, but nicely. He’s being so sweet to me (well, as sweet as Baz gets), and suddenly I’m sick of it, sick of being handled gently. I’m angry and powerless—magic-less—and I want sardonic, superior, desperate Baz back the way he was before.

“Okay, please,” he tries again, and reaches out a hand to pull me toward him, but I lean away.

“Have you ever said ‘please’ and actually meant it? Even once in your life?”

“Oh, come off it, Snow. Please!”

He shifts, adjusting his hips. He’s starting to get off on this.

So am I.

“Baz, it’s not a _command_. You’re asking for something. Something you want, that you won’t get unless you ask.”

I move again so he can’t touch me, and he’s getting annoyed. Good.

“Snow, do we really have to—“

“Yeah, you git, we really have to.” My mind flashes to the children’s homes where I lived. It wasn’t all that long ago… the rows of flat cots, the long tables of industrial gray, the gnawing hunger, the boredom, the loneliness. Trying to flatten out your mind, to forget Watford, to forget everything, so that its absence couldn’t leave you hopeless and empty as a gaping hole.

Baz has no idea what wanting is.

“Please,” he tries again. His pale skin glows like he’s lit from inside. There’s a glow in those hooded eyes of his, too. A challenge, or desire, or both.

Getting better, but still wrong.

I get up off the bed and circle around him, and then sit down behind him without touching him. He starts to turn to look at me, but I stop him with a hand on his shoulder. I push him back more roughly than I have to.

“Turn around,” I say, and he does. I can see his white shoulders lift with his breath and I want to put my mouth on them and bite, hard, but I don’t.

Instead, I bring my lips next to his right ear and open my mouth, just to let him hear me breathe. His breath gets faster and more ragged.

So does mine.

Baz shifts uncomfortably again, and I see him reach his right hand down into the shadows to touch himself, almost furtively, like he’s sneaking it.

“No,” I whisper into his ear, and I reach around to take his right wrist. I lead it around his back and pin it to the bed with my left hand. 

Then I reach around again and let my hand hover above his crotch. I can feel the warmth he’s giving off, like a throb, straining. Or am I imagining it? I have no idea what I’m doing, but it feels amazing.

“Ask me, Baz.” My own voice is thick and low.

“Please,” he says, and it’s getting better. The air is charged. I look down at Baz’s white neck, down to his crotch.

His boxers are centimeters away from my hand, and he tries to move his hips up to it, but I don’t let him.

“Please. _Please_.”

There we go.

I reward him by putting one finger just where I think his cock is, so lightly, and start to draw it up, so, so slowly. I’m touching Baz’s hard cock. This all still feels bloody unbelievable, sometimes.

Baz moves his hips, straining toward my hand. He tries to arch his back, but I still have his arm pinned behind him. He writhes.

I’m making Baz _writhe_. With only one finger.

“Please!”

He says it beautifully this time, rough and gasping, cracked with desire. I put a second finger down.

 

**BAZ**

This is wonderful and horrible. The worst torture, the best. My mouth is open and I’m panting; I can barely draw a breath.

He has no idea how many times I’ve imagined his hand on me. Every night, every day. Months, years, of wanting Simon Snow. The last few months have been impossible, trying to just hold hands and go slowly and not scare him, not let on how much I’ve wanted this, how much I need it.

“Please.” The word is thick in my throat. It comes out without me knowing I’ll say it. I’m lost in him, in this.

“Please,” I say again. His fingers press harder. Oh, Crowley. I’ll repeat it a million times if I have to.

Anything.

I’ll beg.

I am begging already.

“Please, Snow, please.” His whole hand is on me now, his palm pushing down, the smooth fabric of my boxers rubbing us both, and I’m thrusting my hips and making sounds low in my throat. I’m ashamed of this, these noises, but I have no control, nothing, I just need him to keep going.

“Please.” He finally reaches in and wraps his hand around my cock. It feels impossibly warm and a little rough and his palm is so big and he begins to stroke, moving his hand in the way he must move it on himself, and thinking about that brings me right up to the edge.

“Oh fuck, yes, yes, Snow, fuck, yes,” I say, pressing my hips against him—but wait, no, he’s stopping, stopping now when I’m so close, no. Then I realize: Those aren’t the words he wants to hear.

“Please! Please.” It comes out like a growl.

He starts to move his hand again, but it’s too slow, he’s back to teasing. The wrist he’s twisted behind my back is beginning to hurt and my arm is jammed between us. I need this so much, I’m aching.

“Please, Simon! Simon, please, pl—“ and that does it, he speeds up again, his whole hand stroking and rubbing, with an extra press at the base, at the exact perfect spot, so much pressure, I'm absolutely losing it, it’s horrible-wonderful, and I explode in his hand, rocking, writhing, bucking, saying “Simon, Simon, Simon” until it’s just a whisper.

He finally lets go of my wrist and wraps his arm around my chest, pressing my back against him while keeping his right hand wrapped around my cock.

I lean my head back onto his shoulder. My hips finally stop jerking and I rest my whole back against his body, exhausted.

I can feel him smiling, but I’m near to tears. I squeeze my eyes shut against them.

Simon Snow keeps his arms tight around me. We’re drawn together, and now it's just wonderful-wonderful.

Merlin, how long I’ve waited for this, how much I needed it.

Snow has no idea what wanting is.


	2. A Few Hours Later...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz couldn't stop until they evened things out.

**BAZ**

We wake up a few hours later, almost in the same position, with me leaning back into Snow and probably crushing him.

"Can't feel my arm," he mumbles as I roll off of him.  
  
We’re both still wearing nothing but our boxers, and it's cold and disorienting. Today's spell has worn off and his tail and wings have reappeared, a little crumpled. They look uncomfortable, heavy and drooping, like they're weighting him down.

"Do you want me to..." I motion with my chin. He nods, avoiding my eyes.

I pick up my wand from the table beside the bed and whisper the words Bunce and I worked out: **_I've got one hand in my pocket._** It makes the wings and tail sort of zip up and fold inside him. It's decent but not perfect—’90s pop songs don’t make for the most elegant spells, and it only lasts a day—and he winces as the wings enter his back. He claims it doesn't hurt, but I don't believe him.

Simon pulls up the blanket, still not looking at me. I lean over and give him a soft kiss. He tastes like cinnamon and sleep.  
  
"I'd like to, you know, even things out a bit," I say.  
  
He smiles. "Is that right?"  
  
"Yes. Fairness is very important to me."  
  
"Oh, really? Since when do you care about fairness?" He's smiling more now, it's reached his eyes, and all I want to do is touch him. Every metaphor in the world applies—he's food when I'm starving, he's shade when I'm burning up, he's warmth when I'm freezing, he's water when I'm dying of thirst. The endlessness of my need for Simon Snow... it's like once I've admitted it and it's out in the open, I can't shove it back.  
  
It's making me mental. And I don't know how to touch him, how to start this. I can't hold his gaze anymore.  
  
"Show me what you like," I whisper, dropping my eyes. My hands are shaking and I don’t know where to put them, so I press them flat on the bed, willing them to stop.  
  
The truth is, I'm afraid to touch him. Imagining something for so long… when it becomes real, it's almost too much. And it's one thing to wrap your arms around someone and pull them close after a life-and-death battle, when they're sobbing and covered in blood. It's another thing entirely when it's a Wednesday night and you're in a regular bed together, like regular people, and you're just consumed with wanting. Wanting him. Wanting Simon.

"What I like?" He sounds genuinely confused. "You want to see me..." He waves vaguely toward his body and I have to swallow before I can speak again.  
  
"Yeah. If, you know... if you wouldn’t be too bothered..."

The heat of his embarrassment almost matches my own. We are both so fucking _vulnerable_ , it's killing me.

  
**SIMON**

If this were a story, Baz would have already fixed me by now. Just the act of kissing him for months, and certainly getting him off last night, would have healed me and made me whole again.  
  
But this isn't a story, and I'm still angry and I'm still sick of being so raw and exposed all the time. He has to spell my bloody wings away every single day; it’s humiliating. And now he's asking me to do the most private thing in the world in front of him. It's something I don't even do to myself all that often, to tell the truth. I haven't been that—ah—in touch with my sexuality, I guess. I was sort of busy, the last few years.

I can’t do this.  
  
But oh, the way he's looking at me right now. He’s all openness and need. He’s pure desire. That collected, cultivated coolness… it’s just gone.

And then I think about the way he begged earlier, the sound of his voice saying please, and I can’t believe I can mean this much to someone. Not because I'm _the_ chosen one, but because I’m _his_ chosen one. I’ve never been that before. I’m just beginning to understand this.  
  
I want to give Baz everything I have, even though it's nothing.  
  
I smile at him. I can give him this, at least.  
  
"Pitch. You lazy, entitled bastard. Are you always going to make me do all the work?"

  
**BAZ**

Oh Merlin, he's going to do it.

  
**SIMON**

We're facing each other again, like a redo of a few hours ago. I'm wide awake now, exhausted but alert.  
  
I reach into my boxers, but I'm still sleepy and a bit cold. Uh oh. Where do I start?

I close my eyes but they fly open again; I'm too aware of what's happening. I feel a little panicky.  
  
Then I look at Baz's face—really look at him. He's staring at me and struggling to get his expression under control. But he's not fooling anyone. His nostrils are flaring and he's breathing hard already. His left fang has popped so it's sticking over his lip, pressing into the soft flesh. His eyes look like they’re devouring me, smoking pools of gray.  
  
I'm a bit chuffed, actually. I've made him look like _that_ , just sitting here, before I've even done anything?  
  
"Baz, could you, ah, help me?"  
  
"Help you?" His voice is already getting that rough edge to it.  
  
"Yeah, could you... I don't know." I cast around for an idea. "Talk, or something?"  
  
"Talk," he repeats. "Like sex talk."  
  
"Right. Or something."  
  
"Sex talk. Okay. Would you take them off?" Baz asks, motioning vaguely at me.

"What?"  
  
"Your underwear. Take it off. Please, Simon," he adds, with a shadow of a smile, remembering.

I stand up and slide the boxers off my hips, down my legs, and step out. I stand in front of him, naked, and I can physcially feel his eyes sweep my body—it’s rather an ordinary body, I think, without the wings and tail visible—but Baz bites his lip harder, both fangs out now. He takes a deep breath. He looks starving, like he wants to bite.  
  
"So, no, actually. I don't think I can talk,” he says, his voice hoarse and jagged. “I can't really even think right now."  
  
Damn. "Well, okay. At least stop looking straight at me, then, while I get started. Close your eyes or something until… well, you know. For a while."

  
  
**BAZ**

Close my eyes? Is he mad?  
  
I'll be replaying what’s about to happen in my head for years, maybe decades; I refuse to miss one single second.  
  
"Sure," I say, sounding strangled. "But you close yours too."  
  
"All right," he agrees, and shuts them obediently.  
  
I don't even blink.

  
**SIMON**

Crowley. Now I'm sitting here with my eyes closed and I can't even see him, his parted lips and bare chest and his lovely eyes shining in the dark. How will I get off without that?

Okay. Think, Snow. Use your imagination.  
  
I take a deep breath and think about Baz's lips, pretend I'm still kissing him. I do enjoy those lips, very much. Kissing them. Sucking on them. Feeling their sardonic twist.  
  
My prick starts to respond to my touch.  
  
I pretend my own hand is Baz's hand on me—something I've never felt, not yet. There is so much for us to do, still, me and Baz.  
  
So then my mind goes to the only hand I _have_ ever felt, besides my own. The uncertain touch of a girl who'd never done it before and didn't have one of her own to practice on, in her bedroom at her parents' house during Christmas—  
  
No. Stop it, you idiot. Don't think about Agatha.  
  
Too late.

Poor Agatha.  
  
I'm even more embarrassed now that this is taking ages. Baz must be wondering what's going on. I sneak a glance at him—did his eyes just snap closed, a fraction of a second too late?  
  
I squeeze mine shut again.  
  
Okay. Try again. Come on, Snow. You can do this.  
  
I refocus on Baz, but not now-Baz, not this beautiful yearning Baz sitting here, but furious, evasive, snarling Baz, who hid behind his steely composure. I understand then-Baz better; he'd been lonely, frustrated, locked in.  
  
I move my right hand a little faster on myself. I'm not sure what to do with the left hand, so I tuck it under my leg.  
  
I'd been lonely and frustrated too. We both had nightmares, all the time. I remember waking up and hearing him growl in his sleep. Sometimes he would call out and shake so violently that I could see his bedclothes moving from across the room. I think he cried. He always sounded scared.  
  
I never woke him up, even though I could have stopped it. Why didn't I stop it? Why didn't I rip off my cross and go over to him? Get into his bed, wrap my arms around him, comfort him. Press his body against mine. Touch him everywhere. I could have touched him everywhere.

My right hand is moving faster now and my breath is getting short. My skin is hot and dry.

Baz had been over there on his bed, so close to me, all that time. Sometimes he was getting off, he must have been, I’m sure of it. He was excited. Hard. Maybe wanking to thoughts of me, my stupid clueless sleeping self.

I get up on my knees so I can move my hand down and stroke my balls too. I don’t think I’ve ever even done this to myself before.

Baz, Baz. I wish I'd known. I imagine watching him touch himself in our room. I imagine myself kneeling next to him in the darkness, then moving his blankets aside to straddle him, then wrapping my hands around his cock, then taking him into my mouth. Baz in my mouth, someday.  
  
My right hand is going fast, pulling hard, I've figured it all out now. I bring my left hand up to my face, pretending it's Baz touching me, pretending I'm touching him during those long lonely Watford nights.

  
  
**BAZ**

Merlin and Morgana both.

This is the hottest, most unbelievable thing that any eyes have ever seen in the history of eyes.  
  
I can’t help myself anymore, I have to touch him. I’ve been hard so long that it hurts, and I haven’t laid a finger on myself.

It’s his hand on his face that breaks me. Watching him caress his own skin, his hair, that long gorgeous golden throat, that’s what makes me have to stop the show. Because I can’t stand _not_ touching him for one more second.

I lean over and grab him, pull him toward me. He’s surprised and his eyes fly open as I tumble backward and he falls on top of me.

He throws out his hands to catch himself, and now we’re both horizontal with him on top, his face nearly touching mine. I reach up and kiss him, hard.

His mouth is on fire. Our noses collide; we’re so awkward, all raw need, gripping each other in one of these face-slamming, greedy, insatiable kisses.

Then he starts to move his hand again, on himself, and he’s rubbing me too. I can’t tell if he even knows it until I moan, a crazed involuntary noise, so animal-like that he gives a start.

“Are you—what—oh. _Oh_.”

I press my cock into the side of his hand—his fingers, I think, or his knuckles. Something that’s moving and stroking and rubbing against me. I grab his hips and we roll together to the side, and now both of our hands are mashed between our bodies and I have my own cock in my hand, and I know he can feel it too. It’s all one mass of sensation; I can’t tell where he stops and I begin.

Simon arches his back, pulling his face away from mine, and moans low in his throat. I lick the hollow between his collarbones, the place where the sound starts.

He’s moving his hips, canting them, holding his cock so tight, slamming his hand into mine.

“Yes. Yes, Baz.”

I wrap my hand around his. I feel the way he’s moving it against himself, just the way he likes it. I learn something new about Simon Snow.

We’re still kissing and I feel him moan again into my open mouth. He’s thrusting his hips, slamming his cock into my hand, my thigh.

Wow. He is really. Really. Into this.

He’s mumbling: “Oh, goddamn, _Baz_ , Jesus, oh my God.”  
  
Ha. I forgot that he curses like a Normal when he gets worked up.

  
**SIMON**

 

What _is_ this.

This is what sex is supposed to be? I understand the big deal, now. I had no idea. And this isn’t even sex, it’s at least three or four steps away from sex, and it’s already so incredible that I can’t breathe. Actually I really can’t breathe; every ounce of blood and oxygen is headed straight for Baz’s hand where it’s wrapped around mine.

I’m lightheaded. Can you pass out from doing this?

Baz’s hand is matching my rhythm, and I’ve found him too. He’s so hard, I can feel the throb and pull of him, the wanting that’s coursing through his whole body.

He’s pressing the base of his cock into the heel of my hand and I’m doing the same thing, and oh _god_ , oh yes, nothing has ever felt this good.

Until.

Until he takes his hand, his long-fingered amazing Baz hand, and wraps it around both our pricks and rubs them together at the same time. How does he know how to do this? The feel of his against mine, that soft soft skin sliding against the hardness… I’m completely gone, I can’t stop for anything now, all I can think about is his body touching mine, everywhere, all at once. Baz.

“Come,” he whispers into my open mouth, “come,” and I already am, all over the place, chaos and mess, with a moan that turns into a shout because I have never felt this good in my entire life. A quick wave of shame rolls through me but then Baz is coming too, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever known, him coming all over my hand and my stomach and our hot tangle of limbs.

 

**BAZ**

We lie here for a minute, Simon collapsed against me, our hands still trapped between our sticky bodies.

 ** _Clean as a whistle_** , I say, and my magic rises to the surface even without my wand, a delicious tingle, and our skin is warm and dry again.

Simon rolls onto his back and covers his face with one hand, like he’s embarrassed, but he’s also grinning. I can feel it radiating out of him like the sun.

I lay my head on his chest and drape my arm over him. He’s still breathing hard, his heart pounding away.

“Well, fuck, Snow,” I say. “We’re still not even, you know.”

“Even what?”

“Even! Even like fair and square. I’ve had two tonight, to your one.”

I feel his grin stretch even bigger. “Right. You’ll have to make it up to me, but let me catch my breath first. I feel like I might die at any moment, right now.”

“Don’t you dare, you tosser.” I smile into the darkness.

 

**SIMON**

Maybe this is as much magic as Normals get. Maybe that’s okay.

Baz’s breathing is slowing down as I smooth his dark hair against his face. He’s falling asleep.  
  
"Snow, I love you, you absolute nightmare," he murmurs.  
  
"Hey, you forgot the first bit! That was my favorite part."  
  
"What first bit?" he asks.  
  
"The 'courageous fuck' bit. When you said it at the leavers ball."  
  
I can feel his laugh against my chest. "Your humility is overwhelming, Snow. As always."  
  
What we're doing now is braver than fighting the Humdrum. That was terrifying, yes, but there was no choice. I was simply walking a path that had already been set; I was never deciding anything for myself. And the way my magic worked, it was just conceding, giving in, to a force bigger than me.  
  
And even that night with the Mage, that was terrifying and unreal, but it felt like fate. Everything was pre-destined and we'd been working up to it for ages. The Chosen One didn't choose much of anything, back then.  
  
But being with Baz like this… _this_ is choosing. I realize that night, when we were dancing, he told me but I didn't tell him.  
  
"I choose you too, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch," I whisper into the darkness.  
  
"Hm?" He is drifting off, all softness, his breath against my collarbone.

Life with me won’t be easy. And we’re talking about someone who regularly sinks his teeth into rats to drink their blood—his life already isn’t easy. Baz is the brave one. He always has been.  
  
"You courageous fuck," I whisper. "You absolute nightmare."  
  
"What's that, Simon?" he murmurs, mostly asleep. My name on his lips.  
  
"I love you," I say. "I said, I love you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, these characters belong to the amazing Rainbow Rowell. <3
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's leaving comments and kudos... you're ensuring that this first fic won't be my last!


End file.
